


Fidelis

by minhyukie (thelogicoftaste)



Category: GOT7, JJ Project
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Court Politics, M/M, joseon era, prince!jinyoung
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelogicoftaste/pseuds/minhyukie
Summary: He says it so flippantly. Rank. It's never far from Jaebeom’s thoughts. Even when Jinyoung would prefer to forget about it altogether.





	1. Camellia

**Author's Note:**

> another royal au, i'm very original i know 
> 
> this is set in mid-late 18th century, joseon dynasty 
> 
> links to hair, costume & clothing guides in the ending notes 
> 
> ttyl 
> 
> ( ˘ ³˘)

-

Jinyoung struggles to understand French.

It takes him a long while to be able to read and understand what it’s saying at the best of times, but he can feel the prickle of a gaze on the side of his face - it’s measuring him, weighing him out and taking entirely too much luxury in its unabashedness.

He’s in the garden, sitting ramrod straight on a wooden bench with a small literary volume between his hands.

It’s bad enough that he’s endlessly stuck with a military detail shadowing his every move, but now there’s an additional presence standing a few feet away, dark green robes almost blending in with the cove of flowers he’s standing in front of.

Jinyoung takes great care not to sigh outwardly. Instead, he closes his book - so small it almost fits into the palm of his hand - quietly and turns to look at his new companion.

The man smiles, slow and handsome. He’s very tall, Jinyoung notices, and walks with the calm self-assuredness of a man given everything and wanting nothing.

Well, Jinyoung thinks. Perhaps not nothing.

He runs the palm of his hand over the embossed cover of his book. Now that the man is close, Jinyoung thinks he recognises him as part of the party that the palace had welcomed days before.

But he hadn’t been able to see much, stuck behind his father and his brothers, so he’s not sure.

From the corner of his eye, Jinyoung senses his guard shifting his weight, making his presence known.

The nobleman’s eyes flick over Jinyoung’s shoulder, briefly, and then focus back to him.

He bows, deep.

“Good morning, your Highness.” There’s that smile again, unwavering. “It’s a growing to a beautiful day, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jinyoung keeps his voice light and pleasant as he stands up.

“Yes,” he says, adjusting the wide brim of his _gat_ , the black silk ribbon is just a touch too tight beneath his chin. “Wonderful.”

“I was just wandering through your gardens,” the other man says. His eyes taking in the breadth of vibrant flowers and plants commingling around them. He turns his gaze to Jinyoung, “Admiring the beauty.”

The man has his hands behind his back initially, but he brings his right arm forward. There’s a single, perfectly formed purple camellia flower in his hand - the centre of it bright and yellow.

“To match your robes,” he tells Jinyoung. “I picked it and thought of you.”

Instinctively, Jinyoung reaches out to take it, but there’s movement in his periphery. A dash of well-worn cotton and a figure suddenly closer to him - almost blocking the distance between himself and the other man: Jaebeom.

He juts out a hand in front of Jinyoung; it’s a quick, wordless thing - a halt.

Jinyoung hesitates, glancing at Jaebeom’s profile, but the guard isn’t even looking at him. His gaze remains steadily, demurely, in the middle space. Almost like he’s not attuned to his surroundings at all, but Jinyoung knows him better than that.

Carefully, he reaches out his hand to gently push Jaebeom’s down. Jaebeom reacts with poise, accepting Jinyoung’s wordless request quickly and returning his hands behind his back once more, at attention.

The nameless suitor watches this with a hint of amusement curling the edges of his smile - turning it almost into a smirk.

It becomes more genuine once Jinyoung takes the delicate stem of the flower between his fingertips.

“Thank you...,” he glances at him, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Taejoon,” the man says, immediately. “Choi Taejoon.”

“I trust that you are enjoying the palace grounds,” Jinyoung says. “Taejoon-ssi.”

“I am,” Taejoon replies. “But I haven’t had the chance to explore as deeply as I would like. Your lands are vast and confusing, for a stranger like me.” He pauses, glancing at Jinyoung, tongue wetting pink lips. “I was in search of a guide. I think the exploration would fare more interestingly with a companion.”

Jinyoung looks at him. He would really like to decline and sit back in the gentle breeze, read his book. Naturally, Jaebeom is a statue beside him, unmoving - though radiating disapproval.

Jinyoung takes an even breath, “I could have a guide arranged for you, the palace is awash with-”

“If I may,” Taejoon cuts in. “I was hoping to engage your Highness in more conversation.”

Diplomacy, Jinyoung chants in his head, even as his heart sinks. _Diplomacy._

“Of course,” he says, his smile is tight but outwardly friendly. **“** I would be happy to.”

Taejoon doesn’t offer his arm, but he does reach over to take Jinyoung’s book.

“Voltaire,” he muses, reading the Hangul translation of the name. He turns it over in his hands, while the palms of Jinyoung’s itch with the desire to take it back.

When he’s done inspecting it, he extends his hand, slim volume gripped between long fingers, towards Jinyoung’s guard.

Jaebeom, predictably, doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t move to take it.

He doesn’t even _acknowledge_ the other man’s gesture.

After a second, Taejoon’s brows begin to furrow, the tension in his shoulders hardening, ready for a confrontation.

Jinyoung expects he's quite used to his needs and wants being fulfilled quickly and without question.

Stepping forward, he deftly retrieves his book.

“He is not a servant,” he says, delicate enough to de-escalate. There is a trace of annoyance he can’t quite do away with, however.

Taejoon's brow quirks before he regains his composure. He bows quickly at Jinyoung, though the cutting glance he serves Jaebeom does not go amiss. “My apologies, your Highness,” he says. "My mistake."

Jinyoung acknowledges him with a tight nod, pressing his lips together. He's eager to diffuse the situation, though, so he turns to walk away, heading away from the neatly trimmed clearing and into the bushier cove of tall trees, spindly flora and lush vegetation deeper into the garden.

Taejoon is an eager companion, while Jinyoung’s own steps are measured and slow. He walks a few paces before he hears Jaebeom follow them at an even distance.

“You like Voltaire?” Taejoon asks Jinyoung, after they walk for a while in silence.  

Jinyoung folds his hands into each other, carefully tucking them and his book into his billowing sleeves, mindful of the small flower in his hand.

“He is…,” Jinyoung hesitates, unsure if it's wise to say. “Interesting.”

“His works are radical, I hear.”

“Controversial, I would agree,” Jinyoung replies with a small smile, getting drawn into the conversation despite his initial hesitance. “But I would perhaps not go so far as to say radical.”

“You wouldn’t?” Taejoon murmurs, tone thoughtful, playful. “Do you agree with what he says?”

Jinyoung glances at him from the side, he can’t help but exhale on a quiet laugh.

“Of course not,” he tells him. “The man is a fool. And the reader who trusts in him is more fool yet. His words are purposefully controversial, and though he has a way of making you think about life and the order of society, it's much clearer that it's contrived to be sensational. It is interesting to read,” he concludes with a light smile. “That is all.”

Taejoon is watching him, mouth quirked to the side. It makes Jinyoung feel self-conscious.

“Yes?” he asks, coming to a stop. They’re by a small pool of water encased by pale bricks. Lotuses and orchids are planted in and around it in abundance. There’s one little pink flower bent at the stem, its petals flushed in the water.

“Nothing,” Taejoon says to him, still with that smile. He stop close enough to him to keep a baseline respectable distance. “I was told of your beauty. There were no lies served to me there. But now, I also find myself admiring your intelligence. Your intellect.”

Jinyoung knows it’s probably not the first time Taejoon has said that, and he's almost certainly not the first person he has said it _to_ \- but, it warms him, nonetheless. Jinyoung’s always enjoyed being praised.

Jinyoung’s heart beats faster, and he glances over to the side, unintentionally catching Jaebeom’s gaze.

It jolts him, snaps him out of the moment.

He resumes his walking pace, the other two men following accordingly.

“I didn’t mean to make you blush, your Highness,” Taejoon says. He says it bashfully, or at least that's the intention behind the tone. Jinyoung can hear the lick of self-satisfaction hovering beneath the surface.

He doesn’t really know how to respond. So he bites the inside of his lip, discreetly, and then settles on, “I am happy to have my interests acknowledged.”

It is a little flirtatious, Jinyoung will admit, but he hopes it’s subtle enough to go unnoticed.

“I am happy to acknowledge them,” Taejoon returns, there’s a spring in his step now. “These days, there are hardly any young nobles who put their mind to work anymore, who read and write well. They’re much more eager to frequent commoner taverns, go riding, or learn to shoot guns.”

“Do you read a lot?”

“Oh, no,” Taejoon laughs, it’s boisterous and loud. “I’m firmly in the second category.”

His smile is infectious, and Jinyoung can’t help but respond in kind.

He leads him further into the garden, pointing out his favourite areas, and the little ways in which his father and the groundskeepers have adjusted the landscape for a fresher, more modern look.

They stop at a water feature, a small stream of clear water running over the textured edge of cut rock.

“You know a lot about the garden,” Taejoon notes. He’s standing closer, now. And Jinyoung is very aware of the heaviness of Jaebeom’s gaze on him.

“It is a particular favourite of mine,” Jinyoung says, wetting his lips. “And his Majesty as well. My siblings, my brothers in particular, were not ever very interested in it, so I took it upon myself to indulge the King’s amusement.”

From one of the winding paths that leads back to the palace, one of the younger soldiers that serve the palace emerges. He heads straight to Jaebeom, with a quick, sharp bow.

“I found myself,” Jinyoung says, voice faltering a little with distraction, “enjoying it also.”

The boy - Yugyeom, Jinyoung thinks he might be called -  talks quietly, taking up Jaebeom’s rapturous attention.

Taejoon cuts across his line of vision with his body. Like this, Jinyoung needs to tilt his head back to look into his eyes, the brim of his gat creating a shadow.

“You’re a good son,” Taejoon says to him. “I can feel your love for the outdoors. He told me I would be able to find you here.”

Jinyoung’s gaze had begun to wander over the sharp ridge of Taejoon’s shoulder, but the words shock his gaze back on to the other man’s face.

“Who told you?”

“The King. We spoke during an attendance-,”

“You spoke with my father?” Jinyoung interrupts, he doesn’t mean to. “About me?”

“Yes,” Taejoon responds, his brows furrow in the middle. “You needn’t worry. He spoke favourably of you.”

Jinyoung is less worried about how favourably his father speaks of him, and more so about the notion that he’s telling foreign men where to seek him. He pauses a harsh breath.

“Did you ask him of me?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Taejoon says after a moment, trying to figure him out, though he smiles kindly at Jinyoung. “I am one of the youngest amongst my party, and since I don't know much of anyone in the city, his Majesty suggested I introduce myself to you. We have much in common, so I hear.”

Over his shoulder, the young foot soldier hurries off.

“I hope that we can be friends,” Taejoon continues.

Jinyoung looks back at him, “I would gladly accompany you in becoming accustomed to the city during your stay.”

The other man nods, pleased.

“I am very lucky,” he says, hand hovering close to the fine silk taffeta of Jinyoung’s outer jacket, “to have such a handsome and learned guide.”

Jinyoung strives not to roll his eyes.

“You do not need to compliment me so lavishly, Taejoon-ssi.”

“A beauty like yours should not go unstated, your Highness,” his hand twitches at his side, but ultimately he settles them behind his back. His gaze, however, is piercing and direct. “It’s beauty enough to fall in love.”

Jinyoung’s lips part, driven by surprise at how forward the other man is.

He swallows thickly, “I-”

From the side, he hears his name, and he turns. Jaebeom is standing close to them, eyes solely on Jinyoung.

“I have other matters to attend to, your Highness,” he says, his voice is sedate and low, always in control. “I need to take you back to your palace quarters.”

Taejoon sensing opportunity, suggests, “If you have matters to attend to, I would gladly look after his Highness. I’m sure there’s more of the garden we’ve yet to see.”

“That will not be necessary,” Jinyoung says, though the kindness in his voice is somewhat lessened by Jaebeom’s simultaneous, curt, “No.”

Jinyoung presses his lips together, holding down his annoyance.

To Taejoon, he says, “Thank you, but I should heed the advice of my guard. We will see each other often while you are here, I am sure.”

“I understand,” Taejoon says, reluctant but aware of the clear dismissal in Jinyoung’s words. “Perhaps we could resume our tour on another day?”

“I would be happy to, Taejoon-ssi.” Jinyoung holds up the flower in his hand. “Thank you for your gift.”

Taejoon bows, and Jinyoung inclines his head in response before turning to follow his impatient guard.

They walk quickly but silently. Once Jinyoung gauges that they’re far enough from Taejoon’s ears he sighs quietly to himself.

“I understand,” he says aloud to Jaebeom, he’s struggling to keep up with his brusque pace, “that time spent in the armed forces does not equip you with the finest of etiquette, but did you have to be such a brute with him?”

Jaebeom doesn’t respond. His shoulders are straight, posture stiff.

“Would you please wait?” Jinyoung asks, though it goes unheeded.

Exasperated, he comes to a stop. He was under the impression that guards were supposed to walk _behind_ their Princes.  

A few steps in front, Jaebeom too comes to a neat stop.

Waiting.

He is listening after all.

Jinyoung sighs once more, making sure his displeasure is heard, before walking forward.

This time, Jaebeom doesn’t resume his walking until after Jinyoung is in front of him.

The palace is relatively sparse when they arrive at one of the pavilions that serves as an entrance. There are a few ladies-in-waiting, in their pink robes, gathered in a cluster, but they disperse quickly once they see both Jinyoung and the cloud of doom and gloom serving as his shadow approaching.

The corridors of his living quarters are equally as empty.

His room is cool when he walks in, cozy. The floors are moderately heated and the windows are closed, enclosing his little, private space in hushed seclusion.

He places his book and the flower on the wooden bedside table, hearing the doors slide shut. Then he undoes the ribbon under his chin and places his gat on top.

A hand wraps tight around Jinyoung’s elbow and there’s barely a delay before he’s being harshly tugged around.

His chest hits Jaebeom’s so hard and fast it forces him to emit a small grunt. Then, an arm winds around his waist and Jaebeom is bending forward, leaning his face close to Jinyoung’s, breath fanning hot across his face.

Their bodies are pressed flush together, thigh to chest, and Jaebeom’s brows are drawn in close.

“Do you find it amusing,” he murmurs at last, voice low and heavy, “to flirt with other men in front of me?”

Jinyoung places his hand on Jaebeom’s chest, fingers digging into Jaebeom’s robes for only a moment before travelling up to touch his neck, the line of his jaw.

He can feel the tension in the set of it. It’s so predictable that Jinyoung can only just smother a smile.

Instead, his hand sneaks behind him to tug at the other man’s arm - coaxing it to loosen.

“I am not a toy,” Jinyoung says. His voice, by its own volition, is light, hushed. “Don’t treat me as such.”

“And I’m not a clown,” Jaebeom retorts, but his hold on Jinyoung is no longer so tight. To Jinyoung, though, it's no less firm, no less grounding. “So I would give you the same advice.”

Jinyoung sighs, twisting out of Jaebeom’s hold so that he can settle on the bed behind them. As if he would have eyes for anyone other than Jaebeom.

He adjusts his robes, there’s plenty of space beside him. Jaebeom is still standing where Jinyoung left him, worn leather boots contrasting with the rich tapestry of the rug.

“I wasn’t flirting,” he insists, eyes on the deep midnight blue - almost molten black - of Jaebeom’s military _cheollik_.

“No?” Jaebeom asks as the fire in his voice simmers down. “What would you call it?”

Jinyoung hums, pressing down on another smile, his eyes flicker up to Jaebeom’s and his voice is more than a little mischievous.

“Diplomacy?” he tries.

The serious façade of Jaebeom’s face flickers, and then it cracks. Unbidden, a sweet smile blooms on his face and his posture relaxes. Although Jinyoung doesn’t think he’s ever seen him be completely at ease within the palace.

“I don’t think diplomacy was what Taejoon-ssi was after,” he remarks dryly.

“No,” Jinyoung agrees after a while. His smile dims, casting his mind back to the conversation. Something about it, just a tiny almost inconsequential thing still bothers him. He can’t quite figure out what.

It does worry him a little. But he casts any thought of it out of his mind - they don’t have much time.

He pats beside him, “Join me?”

Jaebeom hesitates for a moment, as he always does, but he soon settles beside Jinyoung.

The thick rosewood frame just barely shifting to accommodate their weights.

Their arms brush against each other, Jaebeom’s warmth is tangible. Jinyoung tucks his fingers into the pleated cotton folds in the skirt of Jaebeom’s cheollik.

He likes this, likes being so close to him.

Jaebeom’s eyes flicker over Jinyoung’s face, drinking him in.

“Get rid of the flower?” he asks. His tone is different, more casual in the comfort they have between them in their stolen moments alone.  
  
“Absolutely not,” Jinyoung replies. “He’ll ask after it, and then what should I say?”

“He won’t challenge you,” Jaebeom says. His hand sneaks a little closer, knuckles brushing against the palm of Jinyoung’s hand. “He’d be out of his mind to challenge above his rank.”

Jinyoung’s stomach twists, lips pressing together. He says it so flippantly. _Rank._ It's never far from Jaebeom’s thoughts. Even when Jinyoung would prefer to forget about it altogether.

Particularly because Jaebeom tends to take a stark approach - attentive to it, but blind to all the hidden intricacies contained within it. Like he’s scrutinising calligraphy, but not reading what the words mean.

It’s hard to explain, these intricacies, to someone who never has or needed to be immersed in it. So Jinyoung doesn’t.

Instead, he turns voice sticky and sweet.

“Hyung,” he says, watching for the predictable catch in Jaebeom’s breath - almost unnoticeable. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“No?” Jaebeom murmurs. He cups Jinyoung’s jaw, rubbing against the slight sting of stubble with the pad of his thumb. “What do you want to talk about, then?”

“I’ve missed you,” Jinyoung says, eyes drifting down to Jaebeom’s lips.

Jaebeom’s eyes soften with a sigh. The deep shadows on his face seem even starker. Jinyoung wonders how much sleep he’s getting. “Me too.”

Today’s the first day they've seen each other, much less been together, in some two or three weeks.

Jinyoung’s days tend to blur into one another, between sidestepping political intrigue and counting down the moments until they can be together.

Their earlier walk was hindered by the presence of another - and it’s always suffocating being near without being able to hold each other, feel each other’s weight.

Jaebeom brings him closer, kisses him carefully - dry lips giving way to soft warmth.

His licks into Jinyoung mouth, brushes his tongue against his - steady but thorough.

Jinyoung fists his hands in the excess fabric at Jaebeom’s sides and pulls him closer, kissing him back with just a much intent.

His fingers pull at Jaebeom’s gat ribbon, knocking it off clumsily and shifting the black headband beneath it.

Jinyoung gets impatient quickly, and their position on the bed is uncomfortable. He wants to be closer, pressed right up against him. So he swings his leg over Jaebeom’s lap, straddling him.

“Jinyoung,” Jaebeom warns, throwing a cautious look over to the closed door of Jinyoung’s chamber. His hands flit to Jinyoung’s waist - torn between pulling him off and pulling him closer. “It’s daylight.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jinyoung shakes his head, shuffling closer, thighs firm against Jaebeom’s. “Nobody will come in.”

“Careful,” Jaebeom says, hand tightening on Jinyoung’s waist - strong enough to prevent him getting closer. His other hand disappears underneath the side slit of his jacket skirt, emerging moments later with a thinly sheathed knife.

He lays it beside them.

Jinyoung quirks an eyebrow, “Any more?”

“Several,” Jaebeom replies, a light smirk on his face, "but they’re well concealed. They won’t hurt you.”

Jinyoung laughs, ducking down to kiss him again. Getting lost in the familiar comfort.

He holds Jaebeom’s face steady, uneven breaths mingling in the small space between them. Jinyoung feels too hot, but also frantic - attempting to fit a heart-full of longing in just a few moments.

When they part for air, they’re both breathing heavily, chests rising against each other. Jaebeom’s arms are tight around Jinyoung’s waist, and his lips plump and red. He’s slightly flushed now, low on his cheeks.

“I have to go,” he says, once his chest settles into rising evenly beneath Jinyoung’s hand. “I’m expected at the barracks.”

Their faces are close together like this.

Jinyoung steals a kiss from his lips, sweet and tacky in the silence. “You can spare another moment for me.” He kisses him again. “For your prince.”

Jaebeom’s ready for him this time, elongating his neck to kiss his back just as steadily, pulling back with a careful bite at his lips.

They look at each other in the aftermath, heat darkening their eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Jaebeom says eventually. His arms loosen from around Jinyoung’s waist. “I’ve stayed longer than I should have.”

Jinyoung’s mouth parts to say something, _anything._ But in the end he just slides off of his lap. He’s trying to be reasonable, more understanding, though the disappointment is hard to mask.

Beside him, Jaebeom stands slowly, adjusting his cheollik and the cuffs of his sleeves before tucking the dagger back out of sight.

He rubs the back of his hand over his reddened lips, glancing around awkwardly. The tension is already back in the lines of his shoulders.

“Is it serious?” Jinyoung asks, avoiding his gaze. He says it slowly, words rolling off his tongue like molasses. “This task of yours.”

Jaebeom’s eyes flicker towards him, and then away again.

“No,” he says - crisp, succinct. He can be awfully circumspect when the mood strikes him.

“You can trust me.”

“It’s not about trust,” Jaebeom replies evenly. “It’s about safety.”

Jinyoung swipes his tongue over his dry lips. “I can defend myself.”

Their eyes lock together, steadfast on each other. There’s affection and care in it, of course, but the space between them is almost vibrating with carefully ignored tension.

“This isn’t just about you,” Jaebeom says, a hint of admonition in his voice. “Jinyoung.”

Jinyoung’s gaze falls away, he has much more to say, but he knows there isn’t any use in it. He’s heard the whispers of tumult. Of their borders being tested.

It worries him that Jaebeom's striding headfirst into it, that’s all.

Silently, he watches him place his military gat back on. He centres the rounded crown over his topknot before securing the ribbon beneath his chin with a neat bow; the beaded string tied to the brim clacking quietly.

Once he’s done, arms stiff by his sides, he addresses Jinyoung again.

“I can’t let my men go out there without me,” he explains, even though he doesn’t have to. “What kind of man would I be, then?”

Mine, Jinyoung doesn’t say. Safe.

He presses his lips together, changes the subject. “Will you be back to me tonight?”

Jaebeom breathes in deeply. “I can’t promise you that.”

Jinyoung was expecting that - there will be other guards roaming, eunuchs a room away, and his brothers will be back too. It’s difficult to uphold secretiveness.

Still. It stings a little.

“Try,” Jinyoung replies, mouth dry.

He gets a stiff nod in response, but he knows by the shift in the other man’s eyes that he shouldn’t expect too much.

Jaebeom takes a few step forwards, fingers digging into the nape of Jinyoung’s neck as he presses a long kiss on his forehead. Jinyoung’s eyes close, and he grips firmly at Jaebeom’s wrist.

“I’ll send Sandeul over to you,” Jaebeom says. “Don’t leave the palace without him, do you understand?”

“Yes,” he replies.

“Jinyoung,” Jaebeom says, eyes boring into his. “I mean it.”

“I understand, Captain,” he assures him, reaching forward for a kiss. “I won’t.”

One more kiss, and then Jaebeom is standing upright. His eyes flicker around the heavily decorated room of Jinyoung’s quarters.

Then he heads for the corridor, stepping out just as quietly as the slide of the door behind him.

He leaves Jinyoung on the bed, quiet and alone.

-

Jinyoung dislikes being awoken.

The sudden sunlight is harsh against the back of his eyes as the curtain is tugged open; the windows opened to let in the morning air.

He groans, sighing deeply as he attempts to pull his bed covers over his head - still stuck in a slump of unhappiness.

Unfortunately, Youngjae knows him too well already. His deft hands are already pulling the covers back, coaxing Jinyoung into sitting up.

“Too early,” Jinyoung complains, pulling away from the squire. He drapes an arm over his eyes and sighs deeply. “Must you wake me now?”

“It’s been long since dawn, your Highness,” Youngjae says, voice without a tangible shape behind Jinyoung's tightly closed lids. “There’s attendance with the King and the council soon. Your presence is required.”

Jinyoung frowns at the overly polite tone in Youngjae’s voice. Taking down his arm, he peers around.

It’s not a small room by any means, with Jinyoung’s ornate bed-frame built into the far wall, a heavy desk - littered with calligraphy brushes and loose sheets of paper - by the window, and a small personal bookshelf on the other side.

Now, with half a dozen eunuchs lined up in two rows, almost bent double at the waist while awaiting instructions, it seems stuffy and cramped.

The only source of movement is Jinyoung’s maid, Jinkyung, as she bustles about in her blue skirt and cropped pink jacket, white ribbon almost as long as her hair.

She’s arranging Jinyoung’s outfit for the day, laying it down on a chair before she shuffles backwards out of the door.

Safely behind the prying eyes of the eunuchs and Youngjae, she glances about herself before smiling at Jinyoung and departing with a quirk of her eyebrows and a small, charming wave.

“-are you listening?” Jinyoung hears, it snaps him to attention.

“Yes,” he replies automatically.

Youngjae narrows his eyes.

Jinyoung offers a small, guilty smile in return.

He might be younger than Jinyoung is, with far more limited capital too, but his influence over him is undeniable.

“Let’s hurry,” he says now, gesturing for the head eunuch to advance. “Or else you’ll be late.” He pauses, amending. _“Later.”_

Jinyoung humours him, trying to stay as still as possible as the eunuchs surround him, each tugging a different item of clothing on to him.

Settled into Jinyoung’s desk chair, Youngjae rattles off their days activities at Jinyoung. Words barely going in one ear before they’re out the other.

Scholarly duties, as expected. Some physical training, unusual but not unwelcome. A quick meeting with a textile merchant, not terribly exciting. Customary get-together with the sons of local yangban families, tedious, but thankfully short lived.

Soon, Youngjae is escorting Jinyoung and the eunuchs through the palace’s weaving corridors towards the exterior attendance hall.

It’s situated in one of the short pagodas at the edge of the palace, overseeing the lake. The sun gleams on it, melting into the gilded gold.

A breakfast banquet is already laid on a long table that runs the length of the deck. Towards the far top, on one side, are Jinyoung’s brothers and brothers-in-law.

The council officials, in their red ceremonial robes, crowd the other available edges of the table. Though, curiously the top left side is empty.

He can see some of them tut in disapproval at his lateness, even though they think they’re being discreet.

The lower ranked officials all stand to greet Jinyoung with a bow. He breezes past them, only stopping in front of two older gentlemen - so alike in stature and costume, and distant in everything else. Though they sit next to each other, there's a recognisable, gnawing coolness that is reflected in the subtle ways their bodies turn away from each other. 

On the right, is Jinyoung's grandfather, sitting at the furthermost top beside the empty space.

“Harabeoji,” he says, bowing deeply. The eunuchs and Youngjae disperse into the background behind him. “Did you sleep well?”

His grandfather smiles, a barely-there placid slither beneath his wiry moustache, and inclines his head.

Jinyoung’s eyes flicker to the man beside him: Minister Ok, the father of the King’s second wife. His heart all but leaps into his throat, pulse quickening. He's always been slightly averse to the rigid, unreadable strength of his gaze. He bows to him quickly.

Then he turns quickly, rushing towards the top of the table where the Crown Prince, Wooyoung, sits beside their brother Taecyeon. 

Jinyoung’s heart is beating fast, always so anxious around the Minister. There’s a small space between Wooyoung and Taecyeon, but Jinyoung manages to fit in.

“Are you alright?” Wooyoung asks him, clamping a hand on his shoulder with a squeeze.

Jinyoung nods, but he’s distracted, eyes flitting about the columns of the hall, peering until he sees Jaebeom - standing near the King’s seat.

It comforts him, even though Jaebeom’s not looking at him, knowing that he's close by. And yet, in the pit of his stomach grows the incessant craving to be even closer to him. Jinyoung glances away quickly, aware of the audience.

At his side, Taecyeon is plucking round green grapes, still wet from the spring, from the thickly corded vines on the table. He’s the only one who’s doing so, so far, and it pulls in disapproval from all edges.

The King hasn’t yet arrived yet, and the maidens around the perimeter radiate more and more anxiety with each grape Taecyeon pops into his mouth.

Minister Ok’s voice is deep and even. The warning he casts into his grandson’s name, as he rumbles at Taecyeon from further down the table, feels like danger even to Jinyoung.

Taecyeon takes it in stride. Sitting back with a long-suffering sigh.

They wait with hungry stomachs. Wooyoung is draped over Jinyoung’s shoulder as he reaches over to talk with Taecyeon.

Jinyoung’s other brothers, all older than him, are speaking amongst themselves further down the table. They’ve never really paid much attention to him anyway.

He’s in a strange position - the youngest of all his siblings, but the second son of the King and Queen consort, a Grand Prince. He’s the second in line to the throne after Wooyoung, with all the technicalities that come with it.

Low-down on the ranks amongst his brothers, his status as a grand prince is the only reason he doesn’t fall down flat on his face. That and Wooyoung’s constant protection.

The murmur of conversation in the halls swells as they grow bored, and the noise competes with the constant ringing of the cicadas outside.

Jinyoung can’t quite stop himself from sneaking glances at Jaebeom, attempting to conceal it.

Nervous energy drips down his spine once their gazes meet. Nothing is said, but Jinyoung can practically read the promise in Jaebeom’s eyes. Soon, it says.

Just like that excitement builds in his stomach, even as Jaebeom’s gaze flickers away again - distant. Jinyoung can’t completely hide his smile.

“What are you smiling at?” Taecyeon demands, peering at him.  

Jinyoung startles, smiling dropping from his face completely. “I’m not smiling.”

Taecyeon narrows his eyes, “Don’t lie to hyung.”

“I’m not lying,” Jinyoung falters, slipping into uneasy silence.

Wooyoung laughs boisterously in Jinyoung’s ear, addressing Taecyeon.

“Don’t pull rank on the poor boy,” he says lightly, he reaches to pluck a handful of grapes too - pouring half into Jinyoung’s palm. “He’s just excited at seeing his new suitor.”

Jinyoung almost laughs along, until he realises what his brother has said. His eyes widen, and he snaps his gaze towards Wooyoung. “Suitor?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Taecyeon teases, tapping Jinyoung’s slack cheeks with his fingers. “The palace is awash with talk about your garden walk.”

Jinyoung’s mouth dries out, even as his brothers continue to laugh. Wooyoung’s careless arm tugs at Jinyoung’s shoulder as he jests.

“Our little Jinyoungie,” he’s saying, wide mouthed and loud, “getting ready for marriage.”

Jinyoung’s throat feels tight, he can feel eyes on him from all over the table. His oldest brothers don’t notice, so he chokes a laugh out with them. The grapes in his hand are ice-cold, slippery. He doesn’t feel like eating them any longer.

Instead, he reaches for the glass of water in front of him, chugging two large swigs, but thankfully there’s not much time for talk.

A squire shuffles into the room, the King is arriving.

-


	2. Chrysanthemum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! 
> 
> i hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think!
> 
> ♡

-

The room stands en masse. A wave of hushed murmuring descends. Satin robes brush against silk ones as they’re tugged, adjusted, and smoothed out.

A charged quiet falls quickly over them. The King’s squire, a thin scrawny man with his nose perpetually in the air, wheedles out the ceremony for his Majesty’s entrance.

Jinyoung knows his father is far more fastidious than the pomp and circumstance of all this. And yet, even the King himself can’t escape tradition.

The squire’s voice swells, almost choked with forced emotion, and everyone in the room heeds the cue - bowing deep and stiff as King Wookjung enters.

On the other side of the room, the scholars and the officials have shuffled back, allowing the King a passage to his seat.

The room is alight with a funny kind of tension. It’s not the dangerous, threatening kind. More the apprehensive type, like a juvenile eagerness to show his Majesty all they’ve learned in his absence.

Once seated, the King gestures for them to sit too.

Jinyoung accidentally knocks into Taecyeon’s shoulder, but his older brother doesn’t even notice - too busy being on his best behaviour.

Times like this are the only times Jinyoung sees him being serious, and he’s never known how to take it. He knows it’s not out of respect, not necessarily, but ingrained deference.

Which is worlds apart from Wooyoung’s strained relationship with their father. Which is less deference (like Taecyeon), or piety (like Jinyoung), but something else entirely.

It doesn’t take very long for everyone to settle into their roles. The King sits somewhat casually, legs crossed, one heavy arm over his knee.

His royal guards are all lined up behind him, blocking out the early morning sun, as it strengthens behind thin, wispy clouds.

It forms shadows on Jaebeom’s face, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice. He stares blankly ahead, over the crowd, and beyond into the stone path heading towards the main palace building.

Jinyoung watches him for just a second before his eyes wander over the rest of them, equally solid and imposing. And then finally on his father - who’s already looking at him.

He startles a little - a familiar frisson running up his spine. His father doesn’t smile, but Jinyoung recognises the spark of warmth in his eye.

So he bows his head in response, can’t help return a small smile.

He knows his father is pleased, even if he makes no effort to show it outwardly. His apparent good humour relaxes the room, who all but sigh in relief when the King waves an easy hand and declares: “Eat. What are you waiting for?”

-

Admittedly, a half hour into the morning’s attendance, Jinyoung is far more interested in what’s on his plate than the words around him.

They’ve spoken taxes, farming policies, and now a minor political altercation between two village officials in a Southern county.

“Close to the Choi clan’s seat,” says Jinyoung’s grandfather. “In Gyeongju.”

The King rubs the pads of his fingers together as he sinks deep into thought. It’s nothing but a skirmish really. Two minor officials with egos inflated beyond their means trying to one-up each other.

But Gyeongju is an important asset for Jinyoung’s father. It’s why, Jinyoung suspects, the key seats beside him on the table are still empty today. The Choi’s are powerful, and getting them in favour is crucial.

The King turns to a man sitting a row and a few seats from Jinyoung’s grandfather. He’s a little younger than the officials sitting up front, but he has a wide, rounded face and sharp eyes.

He looks much more serious here, now, than all the times Jinyoung had seen him swat at Youngjae’s backside to curb their mischief as they grew up.

“Is this correct?” the King asks Minister Choi.

Youngjae’s father acknowledges it with a nod. “Yes, your Majesty. Towards the north of the county, a little more inland than Gyeongju.” He pauses here, taking an even breath. His face is almost blank. “My brother ought to better inform you. It’s not been so long they’ve arrived at the palace that they would be unaware of troubles in the county.”

Jinyoung’s found a crack.

It’s a small one, but it marks his small porcelain bowl noticeably. He drags the pad of his thumb over it, notices how it cuts into the thin damask pattern that’s been hand painted on to the porcelain.

It looks much the same as any other porcelain bowl he’s seen and used in his life. He predicts it looks much the same as the bowl that will replace it (once the kitchen maidens realise its fault - so small it’s practically nothing).

“Jinyoung,” his father says.

Jinyoung drops his hand immediately, eyes wide.

“What are your thoughts?”

His lips part, mouth a little dry. He wasn’t listening. He has no idea what to answer.

There’s no weight of accusation in his father’s gaze, though, just an expectancy.

Heat prickles at the back of Jinyoung’s neck, spreading over to his cheeks.

“I think…,” he wavers, lips pressing together. He’s stalling for time.

To Jinyoung’s relief, Minister Ok cuts in before his father presses him for an answer.

“Your Majesty,” he says quickly. He inclines his head, but unlike most other ministers, he’s not afraid to look the King in the eye. “It might be unwise to ask the grand prince his opinion on this matter. He is just a boy after all.”

Jinyoung bites down on his lip. He’s been an adult for far longer than any of these scholars and ministers and officials care to realise, and yet they still treat him as if he were a child.

“Unwise?” the King repeats. Slow. His mouth forms wide over the syllables. His tone remains just as light and pleasant, but there’s a newfound stiffness in the line of his eyes. “My children are far from unwise.”

“Of course,” replies the minister. His voice is smooth, no waver in it whatsoever. Jinyoung wonders whether that’s a symptom of experience or cunning. “Would I not be insulting my own grandsons if that were the case?”

The room takes in the tension like a wave, cresting high - and resting without incidence. But it repeats itself over and over again, until Jinyoung’s head is hot with the beat of his heart against his chest.

“Then, I don’t understand your objection,” says Jinyoung’s father. He lifts a hand, almost acerbic. “Would you care to share your wisdom with the rest of us?”

Minister Ok’s mouth tightens, bristly beard twitching.

“Experience,” he goes on finally, each word carefully measured out before it’s expelled between thin lips. “Experience gained from reading and learning history, though admirable, is not comparable to experience gained through action. Certainly not enough to understand the politics of resolving a dispute between merchants,” he says. He pauses heavily. Then, “Taecyeon-”

Jinyoung’s grandfather scoffs. Behind him rises a rumble of noise from the Park faction, a low jeer at the predictable turn of conversation.

It’s one of the rare times that Minister Ok actually looks visibly ruffled. He thickens his voice to be heard over the Parks; Jinyoung lowers his eyes to the table, fingers in his lap digging into each other.

There’s a scrap of bright green grape floating on the small pool of moisture at the bottom of his bowl. He’s intensely aware of where his arm is pressed up against Taecyeon’s. His brother practically vibrates beside him, as if he’s consuming all the tension within himself. Jinyoung’s a little afraid to see the look on his face.

“Taecyeon,” Minister Ok is saying despite the loud, disapproving rumblings, “has been serving the government of Hanseong for long enough-”

The King raises a palm, silencing the minister. An abrupt hush chokes the noise of the hall. Further out, towards the fields and the trees, the cicadas drill their noise into the air.

“If,” King Wookjung says, “I sought Taecyeon’s thoughts, would I not ask?”

Minister Ok sucks in a breath, readying himself - but the King quickly cuts him off.

 _“If,”_ he repeats, harder this time, “he would like to continue with government, he may do so, _under_ the grand prince’s guidance - as succession dictates.”

He pauses, letting the words permeate - letting them boil and bristle and sink into the tension.

He continues, looking directly at the Minister, “Or else, he may take up position as commander of our forces. As I wanted him to do, but I was gracious enough to allow you a choice.”

“You and I both know Taecyeon was not born with the disposition of a soldier, your Majesty,” says Taecyeon’s grandfather, though he pulls back his indignance - catching the hidden warning in the King’s tone.

“It does not matter what you think he was born or not born to be, Minister,” the King replies, but he seems to be already tiring of the conversation. “It is what it is.”

He waves a hand at his squire, who rushes forward from near one of the large polished wood pillars at the side, and asks him to bring the Choi party into the hall.

The squire, a handful of maidens and some guards rush off to retrieve them. And just like that - the earlier discussion is tabled.

Jinyoung is slightly sweating beneath his robes, breathing deeply to calm his racing heart.

He spends the remainder of the session performing through muscle memory. He bows when appropriate, eats when the others do, carefully moves as directed.

He does catch Choi Taejoon’s eye at one point, where he’s sitting behind the officials of his party taking up the previously vacant spot beside the King.

Taejoon smiles briefly at him, and though Jinyoung feels like he has no more energy for game-playing, he does offer him a returning smile.

Curiously, Taejoon’s smile flickers and fades a little - concern taking over his features.

Jinyoung averts his gaze, internally counting the moments until they’re finally dismissed.

Once that happens, the room becomes a flurry of movement.

Jinyoung trails behind his brothers as they take their customary shortcut through the garden. They’d normally gather together for a little while after attendances - though Jinyoung doubts that’s likely to happen this time.

He speeds up his steps, reaching out to curl his fingers around the wrapped sleeve of Taecyeon’s cheollik.

“Hyung,” he starts - but he doesn’t manage to finish.

Taecyeon smoothly twists his arm from Jinyoung’s hold and abruptly, wordlessly changes direction - away from their cluster.

It’s not a violent or a harsh thing - he did it quickly, smoothly. And yet Jinyoung feels otherwise.

Humiliation runs a course through him, but it’s alongside anger. He understands Taecyeon’s feelings, but it’s not _his_ fault. He has no hand in it either, and he resents how it’s taken out on him.

Wooyoung appears at his side, stopping beside him.

“Let him be,” he says. “You know how he is.”

He tugs him along, forward, even as some of their other brothers split and go after Taecyeon. Like loose threads unravelling, their band of brothers becomes torn between them.

Family is everything, of course, but even blood rises above that.

-

Jinyoung tends to have no trouble falling asleep at night, even when his mind is preoccupied. Despite what many may think, he’s not just a pampered prince whiling his time away.

His days are by no means gruelling, he does recognise that. But, all the same, it’s tiring.

It doesn't help that he is also quite a light sleeper.

Tonight, he wakes with the distinct feeling of soft footsteps on the carpet.

A hand settles over his mouth, and his eyes snap open wide, startled.

“It’s alright,” Jaebeom hushes him, almost hidden away in the dark. “It’s just me.”

Jinyoung pushes his hand away, heart racing. “I’ve told you to stop doing that.”

Jaebeom laughs, sitting down beside him. It doesn’t take long before their hands find each other in the dark.

Jinyoung pulls himself up a little bit. He grips Jaebeom’s hand tight, settling their interlaced fingers on top of his silk covers. He peers at the lump in the low-light.

A thin stream of silver moonlight peeks through Jinyoung’s curtains. The small lit lamp he always keeps in his room flickers dull, warm hues.

“It’s been a while,” he says, after a beat, “and a tiring day.”

Jaebeom hums.

It’s probably been even longer for him. He’s still in uniform, the dark black ribbon of his gat cutting a harsh line over his jaw.

Jinyoung climbs out of the covers. They have a routine by now, whenever they meet each other in the dead of night like this.

Jaebeom moves to help.

“No,” Jinyoung says, pushing him back with the pads of his fingers. Jaebeom is strong, capable. Has a fierce, no-nonsense respectability among his soldiers. But at Jinyoung’s touch he sways back like a loosened leaf. “Stay.”

Jinyoung pulls the thick woven blanket he keeps on his lounging seat by the door. He rolls it up some, and then deposits it at the bottom of the door, blocking out the smallest gap in the frame.

It should help to snuff out sound a little more, so that they don’t have to whisper continuously. But it will also help block out the light and shadows.

Jinyoung is careful in igniting the other lamps, not too much - there’s no need for that - but just enough to let them see each other comfortably.

When he’s done, he sits back besides Jaebeom, reaches a hand to undo the ribbon of his gat.

He drops it on the floor, despite Jaebeom’s customary sigh of annoyance. Jinyoung’s not listening, already undoing Jaebeom’s stiff outer jacket, unwrapping his fastened sleeves, taking out the pin of his top knot.

He works through it methodically, taking care in this. Not only because it soothes Jaebeom (it makes him close his eyes as he becomes lax - like he’s made of sweet jelly and not muscle, and bone, and stubbornness) but also because Jinyoung knows the worth in these clothes.

They’re expensive; thickly woven in crude cotton. It keeps him warm, keeps him protected. Jaebeom’s inner clothing is softer though. The silk runs like water over Jinyoung’s fingers, warmed from his heat.

“How long do I have you for?” he asks, eyes on the tiny buttons he’s pushing through matching loops.

Jaebeom sighs, long and deep. He presses back on his palms, watching Jinyoung carefully. “I have time tonight. There’s no rush.”

A smile catches the corner of Jinyoung’s mouth. “You always say that. And then you run from me. Like a startled kitten.”

Jaebeom bats his hands away, moving deftly through buttons with familiarity.

“I don’t run,” he says, revealing his chest inch by inch. He doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but the tone is just about there. “And I certainly don’t run from _you_.”

“You do,” Jinyoung replies, his hand moves up to touch the fine scattering of hair on Jaebeom’s chest. “You just don’t like admitting it.”

Their eyes meet - heat and longing heavy between them. Jinyoung’s hands still linger on his chest, feeling the coarseness against his palm.

It’s a familiar point, this. They watch each other carefully, trying to predict each other’s movements.

Jinyoung’s breath is shallow, and he can feel the shortness of Jaebeom’s own inhalations against his hand. They never seem to be able to decide: conversation first, or love?

There’s so much Jinyoung wants to say, wants to ask - but it’s also been too long since he’s been so close to Jaebeom like this. He wants to feel him, hold him.

Instead, he pulls back. “Let me look at you.”

Jaebeom’s brows twitch, but he knows better than to argue with Jinyoung about this by now.

He stands, settling in front of him. He’s naked down to his trim waist. His soft cotton trousers billow as he walks.

He lifts his arms beside his face, long suffering and yet, compliant, indulgent.

The low light of the lamp casts his skin a little darker, almost golden among the complex reds and deep wooden browns of the room.

Jinyoung looks him from head to toe, where he wiggles his socks into the rug. He’s uncomfortable still, with being looked at.

He doesn’t like being examined, as he calls it. But he suffers through it because he knows it pleases Jinyoung.

For Jinyoung, it’s not a matter of _pleasing._ He knows Jaebeom still doesn’t understand, doesn’t really grasp, Jinyoung’s anxieties over seeing him hurt. Even just a little bit.

Particularly because Jaebeom is careless with his own body. The scars that litter his smooth skin is testament to that.

Most of them, almost inconsequential in appearance, have been borne out of friendly scraps. Some of them, because of Jaebeom’s hot head meeting with equally hot-headed men.

A small percentage of them, the ones that worry Jinyoung the most, are more serious, more sinister.

Jaebeom won’t say anything about those ones though. They don’t talk about things like that.

He turns around slowly, almost sardonically - with heavy footed steps.

There’s a small smile on his face, when he turns back to Jinyoung and his eyes are warm.

He comes forward, placing his hands either side of Jinyoung to steal a kiss.

“Satisfied?”

“Yes,” Jinyoung replies into the second kiss. There are no new scars he can see, no open wounds to tend to. “For now.”

Jaebeom laughs, wrapping an arm around his waist to haul them both up further on the bed. It takes a little bit of maneuvering to get them both comfortable.

Jinyoung grips at Jaebeom’s waist, at the long, thin scar that tapers off towards his back. Kisses him again.

His kisses are addictive. Slow and thorough, but not at all gentle.

The heat is distinctive too; smearing across Jinyoung’s mouth, spilling over to his cheek, over his jaw, over the column of his neck.

His chest rises, neck elongating but he grows impatient soon enough.

It takes a bit of manoeuvring, a little nagging, but he’s able to twist them around. He slips in between Jaebeom’s legs, anchors his wrists to the bed  with his long fingers.

He doesn’t hold him down with a lot of pressure - it would be useless, anyway - but Jaebeom’s face is so open, earnest. Awaiting what Jinyoung has in store.

Jinyoung likes him all laid out like this, the light of the lamps casting a golden hue and warm shadows on his skin.

When he dips down to kiss a line from his collarbones to his navel, Jaebeom stays where Jinyoung has put him - stomach contracting beneath his mouth.

Jinyoung’s still wearing his silk pyjamas, but he rolls Jaebeom’s trousers off first, throws it into the darkness.

He takes Jaebeom into his mouth with long, slow pulls as he holds him by the base; just as he likes it.

Jaebeom’s breath stutters out of his chest. He bites down on the harsh groan that’s tumbling from his lips.

He spreads his legs wider, back arching, pulsing in Jinyoung’s mouth. And his fingers tangle in Jinyoung’s hair, pulling at the long strands tied back with a ribbon.

“Jinyoung,” he gasps, tugging at him until Jinyoung pulls his hot mouth away.

It takes him a second to get his bearings, as Jinyoung’s hands explore him. Then he rises, rough-palmed hands against Jinyoung’s skin as he undresses him.

They move together in tandem, Jaebeom’s legs hooked around Jinyoung’s, as Jinyoung rolls his hips forward in and out.

Their bodies adjust to each other quickly, hips twitching as they find a rhythm.

Jinyoung’s arms tremble where they’re holding him up - and so he lowers himself, laying flat on top of him. He’s surrounded by Jaebeom, hiding noises in the tiny gap of space between them.

Heat bursts in tiny increments all across his skin, his fingers curl tight in Jaebeom’s hair as his hips roll shorter, tighter circles.

The precipice is right there, with Jaebeom’s short fingernails digging into his waist, and their bodies pressed so close together.

Jinyoung’s hips speed up. Gasps spilling from his mouth. He loses his footing on the damp silk. Sinks his teeth into the tensed tendon of Jaebeom’s neck.

It feels like a long time coming, and too fast all at once - Jinyoung can’t help the way he twitches, wanting to get closer to Jaebeom - to complete him.

“Hyung,” he says, voice pitching higher as Jaebeom gasps hot air into his ear. “Hyung-”

-

The candle lantern has dipped lower, casting longer shadows across Jinyoung’s room.

The entire palace is quiet and peaceful. Outside, the wind blows through the foliage, hammers at the walls.

Inside, the air is still. Jaebeom’s breaths are deep and even. He’s rubbing at his eye. His other arm wraps around Jinyoung, where he’s laying with his head on his shoulder, with a settled hand right on the curve of Jinyoung’s lower back.

Jinyoung’s short fingernails gently scratch through Jaebeom’s chest hair - a light scritch of sound amongst the quiet.

Jaebeom presses him in closer, tucks his nose into his hair.

He exhales through his mouth, long and deep. “Have you spoken to your brother?”

Jinyoung hums. Fingers slowly rubbing through the coarseness of Jaebeom’s chest. He doesn’t even have to ask which brother.

He’s still trying to parse out the mess that swirls in his belly when he thinks of the way Taecyeon walked away from him.

“Not yet,” he replies. He remembers what Wooyoung tells him constantly. “He’ll come to me. When he’s ready.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Jaebeom says.

It’s intended as comfort. It is comforting. But it also puts Jinyoung on edge. Makes him _un-_ comfortable. He forgets, sometimes, that he’s always closely watched.

His fingers stop. If he stills long enough, he can feel the faint beat of Jaebeom’s heart against his palm.

“Is it being talked about a lot?” he asks quietly, because he can’t quite stop himself. Like resisting an itch. “Among yourselves?”

There’s an awkward pause. Jaebeom doesn’t say anything - but it’s answer enough for Jinyoung.

He pulls himself up - cool air stinging where it replaces Jaebeom’s warmth.

“Jinyoung-ah,” Jaebeom says, sitting up after him. He holds firm to his arm. “You know what the palace is like. Gossip runs like a river through here. It’s natural.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Jinyoung replies, his tone is shorter now, curt. He wonders if Jaebeom gets in on it too, the hushed speculation.

Jaebeom opens his mouth to respond, but then he pauses, thinking better of it.

“You’re right,” he says.

That’s all he says. Then he quietens.

It surprises Jinyoung, as it always does, throws him for a loop.

Jaebeom has an extraordinary knack for acquiescing. He does it plainly, no hidden agenda. Simply because he wants to.

“Alright,” Jinyoung says, not quite stable. He’s still not used to not being challenged at every turn. “That’s-. Alright.”

Jaebeom cups his hand over Jinyoung’s jaw, rubbing gentle across the faint dusting of stubble he finds there.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t pry.”

“You’re not prying.”

“It feels like that, though,” Jaebeom admits. Almost to himself. His thumb is an even pressure on Jinyoung’s skin. “Sometimes.”

They’ve tangled themselves all up in protocol. Even between them. There are certain topics that are off-limits, conversations untouched, concerns never brandished.

But it’s all unspoken. Like these rules climbed into their space and claimed a stake in it without them noticing.

Jinyoung shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts. He pushes Jaebeom’s hand away and shuffles down a little more.

“How has your knee healed?” he asks, voice tight with the effort of making it appear light. He trails his hand down to Jaebeom’s left knee.

He’d twisted it a handful of weeks ago during some sort of training. Only a minor sprain, but it had left him with a limp for some two or three days as he fended off the ugly swell of bruising.

It’s mostly healed by now. Jinyoung presses into the joint, working his palm into the muscle surrounding it.

“I know the physician ordered you some rest,” he says - there’s a touch of formality in his tone, in the way his words carry themselves. “I trust you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

Jaebeom doesn’t reply. He waits patiently until Jinyoung glances up at him.

“You’re upset,” he says. He _states_ it, like it’s the plainest truth.

“I’m not upset,” Jinyoung replies, even though his voice curls under itself with mulishness. He digs his fingers in harder, massaging firmly.

He doesn’t know why it’s weighing down on him. All of a sudden. He _wants_ to talk to Jaebeom about these sorts of things, to spill frustrations about his family, their plans. But his heart, wrapped up tight with tradition, beats evenly: not yet, what if?

“You’re lying,” Jaebeom says, and there’s humour in the way he says it - though Jinyoung feels like he’s been left out of the joke. “You’ll have to do better than that to lead a government.”

Jinyoung rips his hands from Jaebeom as if he’s been scalded.

He meets his gaze.

“You need not provoke me because I didn’t give you the answer you expected.”

The humour drops from Jaebeom’s face. It happens slowly, confusion overtaken by his regularly used cloak of blank indifference. He meets the challenge in Jinyoung’s eyes.

“It wasn’t a provocation,” he says at last. “Jinyoung.”

“Then what were you trying to achieve?”

Jaebeom looks ready to say something, but then he sighs, moving to get off the bed. It sends a frisson of panic throughout Jinyoung’s body. He sways towards him, without even meaning to, hating the distance.

“I wasn’t _trying_ to achieve anything,” Jaebeom’s says, snatching his trousers from the floor. He stuffs each leg in it inelegantly. “Are we incapable of spending significant time together without descending into accusation?”

Jinyoung holds himself very still, afraid Jaebeom’s going to bolt.

“I’m sorry,” he says, it comes out stiffly too. But he means it sincerely. “For offending you.”

Jaebeom peers at him closely, eyes narrowed. “Are you saying that because you mean it, or because you’re afraid I’ll leave?”

“Both,” Jinyoung says, he’s not afraid to admit that. He likes being open and honest with Jaebeom whenever he can. He leans over the edge of his bed, reaching forward to grasp his wrist, pull him closer. “Whichever allows you to forgive me faster.”

He has to strain upwards - but he holds Jaebeom’s jaw gently, kisses him sweetly.

They end up tangled on the bed like that, at an odd angle, with Jaebeom’s heavy body pressing down on his.

Jaebeom’s mouth is hot, and it yields easily under Jinyoung’s direction.

Their lips part, but they’re still so close together, warm breaths fanning over each other’s faces.

“Feel better?” Jaebeom asks.

Jinyoung hums, eyes still on the other man’s mouth. “Much,” he says.

He laughs as Jaebeom does, low even now. The thought that there are people relatively near is never too far from Jinyoung’s awareness.

Jaebeom rolls over, settling in between the thick wooden frame and Jinyoung.

Jinyoung’s eyes slide closed, but he’s still awake - he feels relaxed, like he could melt into the sheets beneath him.

It’s quiet for a long while. Jaebeom must think he’s asleep because he sighs, breath fanning out to dissolve against Jinyoung’s skin.

“You’ll be a complicated husband for someone,” he says quietly. “Someday, Jinyoung-ah.”  

Jinyoung opens his eyes. It takes him a moment to find Jaebeom’s gaze, he sees him hazily, as if he’s dreaming.

“For you,” he says, equally as quiet. “Yours.”

Jaebeom breathes deep and easy, he’s not as taken over by the wave of sleep as Jinyoung is. His voice is clearer, sharper, as if he’s made his mind up and presents it mechanically, unfeelingly.

“I have nothing to give you.”

Jinyoung turns, curling into his body. He hikes a leg over Jaebeom’s hip, tucking his cold nose into the warm recess of his neck.

“You have yourself, and your heart,” he murmurs, lips brushing across his sensitive skin. He uses the pads of his fingers to card through the hair at Jaebeom’s nape. “That’s all I need.”

“Your father will need more than that,” Jaebeom replies. He’s speaking into Jinyoung’s hair, voice finally growing heavy with tiredness.

Jinyoung yawns, wanting to be closer. “I am the youngest of several children. My father can afford a little leniency.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Jinyoung thinks that’s the end of conversation. But, of course, Jaebeom won’t rest until he’s picked at the strings of something, until he has it all laid out in front of him.

“You’re a prince,” he says. “The grand prince.”

There’s a heavy pause. Jinyoung struggles with how to answer.

“I am his son before I am prince,” he settles on countering. He says it slowly, wanting every word to be understood. “I would hope you would remember that, Jaebeom.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Jinyoung’s caught between sureness and terror of what he’s going to say next. Terror, his belligerent mind reminds him, because he’s sure Jaebeom’s going to say: ‘you know that’s not true’. And then what?

He braces himself, but the quiet air drones out. Still.

Jinyoung peers up. Jaebeom’s face is slack, empty.

He’s asleep, or pretending to be. Jinyoung’s still not able to figure it out.

He doesn’t quite know how to take it. But he doesn’t want to disturb Jaebeom if, indeed, he is sleeping. Instead, he lies his head back down and tries to entice the sleepiness that had run away from him.

Jaebeom’s hand squeezes where he holds his hip, a light touch. Could be a reflex. Jinyoung tries not to think too much about it. He falls asleep soon enough.

-

Today’s tea is a pale white chrysanthemum blend; imported, delicate, expensive. It’s not to Jinyoung’s taste, but his sisters enjoy it.

He swirls the hot water in the pot - careful as the heat leaks into the porcelain. It’s a larger one, decorated with peony sprigs and long-tailed dragonflies.

His hands shake only a little bit, unused to the movements. But he tries to remember the countless lessons in tea making ingrained into him. A few more swirls, he tips it gently from side to side to warm it up thoroughly. He’s getting the hang of this.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Boyoung informs him, words cutting through the atmosphere like broken glass. She’s sitting across from him on the low table, biting down on her mocking laugh.

Jinyoung sighs, rolling his eyes. He dumps the pot on the table with a clatter. Even his mother, sitting beside her, is laughing - light, tinkling chuckles.

“You do it, then,” he complains, mouth pursing. “As my talent is evidently not on par with yours.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Sooyoung chimes in from beside him. She adjusts her skirt around her pregnant belly and leans over to grasp the coiled gold handle of the pot.

She pours some in his cup expertly, quickly. One hand holds her sleeve back, while the other holds the tea-pot. Her cheeks are still a vivid, pretty red from laughing at him.

“There,” she says after, catching his eye. She places the pot down gently on the table. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Now,” their mother cuts in. “Don’t tease your brother too much.”

She sits perfectly straight. But she’s dressed down today. Her hair is pulled back into a simple chignon with a gold pin, and there’s a small matching dragon-shaped ornament fastened to the top of her hair with plain black ribbon.

Despite being so casual, there’s something so fundamentally regal about her - it’s in the way she carries herself.

Sooyoung has the beginnings of that too, a gentleness in mannerism. Boyoung is more free-spirited, closer in personality to Jinyoung.

Wooyoung, Jinyoung thinks as he watches his brother stuff yet another small delicacy in his mouth, is regal in his own way. He sits casually, leaning towards Queen Hyesun, peppering the conversation with an occasional input.

Jinyoung's mother pats his hand as she talks, words gentle, flowing.

It’s a beautiful day, with a bright clear sky. Sunlight streams in from the windows, propped wide and open. There are only a handful of servants scattered across the room, but they almost blend in with the background.

Boyoung has poured them all tea at this point, as the Queen continues to pat Wooyoung’s hand, nagging.

“-several heirs,” she’s saying to him. Jinyoung only catches the latter half of the conversation as he helps Sooyoung sit more comfortably. “You’re the crown prince.”

There’s always an edge of satisfaction when she says that, _the crown prince._ The power in that is undeniable.

“Mother,” Wooyoung wheedles, teasing her with pretend-formality. He places his hand on their sister’s slim shoulder. “Sooyoung is taking care of giving you a grandchild. Please direct all child-rearing topics towards her.”

Boyoung catches Jinyoung’s eye, sharing a smile between them. The Queen laughs, but she takes heed - glancing over at Sooyoung.

“And how is my dear?” she asks, extending a hand over the table to grasp hers delicately. Sooyoung has travelled a minor distance to get to the palace today. “Have you been well?”

“Yes,” Sooyoung begins to answer, but the rest of her conversation is impeded by a sudden flurry of movement.

The door of the lounge sweeps open, a stream of maids and eunuchs flowing in.

Queen Hyesun’s gentle disposition is quickly replaced by the hardened, icy set that’s so infamous in the palace.

“What is the meaning of this?” she asks, hard-edged. A frown appears between her lightly powdered  brows, and her hand drops from Sooyoung’s. Wooyoung is sitting up straighter too. “Answer me.”

She directs this to a eunuch who has approached their table. He doesn’t answer, though he bows long and deep.

A skittish maiden comes up behind him, eyes on the floor, shoulders bunched up around her ears.

The tray she holds is lifted almost to her face. On it contains a singular porcelain cup and chaucer - the same fine quality, the same peony bunches and long-tailed dragonflies as the set in front of them.

Just the sight of it brings an immediate, odd kind of hush over them. Queen Hyesun’s mouth shuts delicately. A look, unreadable to Jinyoung, passes over her features.

The eunuch bows again before taking the cup and chaucer on the table, on the empty edge of the table between Jinyoung and Boyoung.

Quietly, they watch him. The silence drags on even as the eunuch and the maid shuffle backwards towards the outskirts of the room.

Jinyoung’s mother takes an even breath.

“Boyoung-ah,” she says after a strained moment. “Please move closer to Jinyoung.”

Wooyoung is too ready to be confrontational, mouth opening in protest - but the Queen shuts him down with a single look.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t _have_ to, an entire conversation passes through their gazes.

“Boyoung,” she repeats, tearing her eyes away. She folds her hands in her lap.

Jinyoung offers his hand to his older sister as she adjusts her olive green skirt and stands. He pulls her seating pillow closer to him and she settles there.

Almost immediately another eunuch - faceless, nameless - deposits the King’s seating pillow beside the Queen, and switches out Boyoung’s cup for their father’s.

They don’t need to wait long for the King’s entrance. He walks in with wide smooth steps, still wearing his riding overcoat, mud splatters marking the the hem that hangs around his legs.

Jinyoung bows as he sits, moving carefully so as not to attract the slowly growing tension.

His father, as always, seems oblivious to it all.

He takes the sweet rice ball from one of the platters.

The Queen’s expression is molded into one of indifference. It’s always a peculiar feeling to see it. Jinyoung feels like he almost doesn’t recognise her, or the bland, monotone character of her speech.

“Let us serve you some tea,” she says. She’s addressing the King, and although their eyes meet, it’s like they’re not seeing each other at all. “The water has been freshly boiled. It’s chrysanthemum today, light. You’ll find it suits your palette.”

Boyoung picks up the pot, the closest daughter in proximity. But the King merely lifts a hand to stop her.

“It’s alright. Jinyoung will pour me some,” he says, glancing over at him across the table. “Won’t you?”

Wooyoung makes to grumble, but Jinyoung spies the movement in the Queen’s arm as she pinches him.

“Yes, your Majesty,” Jinyoung tells his father after a beat. He takes the pot from Boyoung, readying himself to lean over to his father’s cup. “I’d be happy to.”

“Your Majesty?” the King repeats, his voice is sticky from the remnants of the candied treat. There’s an undercurrent of humour in it, but his eyebrow ticks up.

“Yes,” Jinyoung corrects, mouth set in an small smile. “Appa.”

His father looks much more pleased, sitting back on his pillow. He directs his attention to Sooyoung instead, as Jinyoung carefully pours a shaky stream of tea into the mug.

Some spills over, pooling in small droplets on the waxed surface of the table.

The King is convivial in conversation with Boyoung and Sooyoung. He isn’t attentive to the relative stiffness of the air, the tension that permeates their small table.

Wooyoung has distanced himself from the conversation altogether, untouched tea going cold in front of him.

The day’s sunlight now seems almost intolerable; too harsh as it streams into the room. Jinyoung squints against it as he inexpertly fills their cups again.

He lets the voices of his family roll over him, takes comfort in it, even with all the tension folded into the nooks and crannies. Impossible to get out.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i dislike writing smut lol


	3. Carnation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed jaeb's name spelling, just fyi  
> also there's an exchange here that's vaguely sexist but what can i say, it's the 18th century!

-

Jinyoung, from the age of remembering, had always been taught not to trust - neither something, nor someone.

When he was barely taller than his father’s knee, he was scolded by Youngyoun - an old eunuch with a curved spine (so long had he spent curled over in respect) and now long since passed - not to trust the weight of thinning tree branches in autumn. Youngyoun had briskly wiped Jinyoung’s tear with the rough pad of his thumb, concern twisting his thin, dry lips. But he’d swatted at Jinyoung’s bottom and told him to hurry him away.

A handful of seasons after that and Jinyoung had cried bitterly, sobs chugging out of his throat with anger, with his first taste of hardened resentment. He remembered Youngyoun’s words, remembered too, that he was no longer there to wipe his tears.

Jinyoung’s blood throbbed beneath his scraped knee, and the cherries he’d laboriously picked mushed and squelched between his fingers, dripping dark juices over his wrist.

Wooyoung had long since darted away - laughing after pushing him into a sapling tree, whose branch had snapped cleanly beneath Jinyoung’s weight and left him scrambling to the floor. Wooyoung had already gone, situation already half forgotten.

Their mother found Jinyoung like that beside the path, cradling his knee like a newborn baby. Her long procession of ladies in waiting, with thickly braided lockets of hair curled into each other and dark eyes, murmured among themselves.

The golden trinkets in Queen Hyesun’s hair had been musical in the breeze. He remembers the gentleness, the powdery rose scent of his mother as she lowered to his level. She took him in completely, eyes all-seeing somehow, and had gently pushed away his wrist with soft fingers, careful not to gain unsightly cherry on the silk of her deep marigold-coloured skirt.

She cupped his cheek, rubbing just beneath his eye, smiled and sighed. “My darling boy,” she’d said, “you trust too much.”

Only a moment, and then she had stood up, glanced at him with knowing eyes, trusting that he would stand on his own two legs. Mind made up, Jinyoung’s mother smoothed her skirt, glanced about her, then continued her scheduled procession.

Her ladies and her servants glanced at him from the corners of their eyes - the women getting smaller and smaller throughout the line, from proud on colourful cloth shoes, to shoulders curled in, heads bowed. Their ostentation, the colour of their skirts and jackets, their hair too all grew simpler. Until, the maiden girls right at the tail end - fumbling their steps, too young for elegance yet.

One had hesitated, her pale skirt short for her long frame. Her hair was pinned back, loosely held by a ribbon, messy. It was her eyes, however, the colour of dark honeycomb in the sun, that had struck Jinyoung. She stopped and watched him unabashedly, childish grimace at the droplets of blood blooming on his skin.

HEE had frowned deeply at her, insulted. This maiden servant girl who was-, who was _seeing_ him in all his pain, as superficial as it was. She looked at him candidly, and so Jinyoung looked all the same - bitterness deep beneath his furrowed brow.

A mere second passed between their locked gazes and then the girl was fumbling in the deep side pockets of her skirt. Her handkerchief was small, and wrinkled, and not entirely clean. She offered it to him, limp over her delicate hands and uneven nails. Jinyoung had turned up his nose at it, as he was wont to do, but he was feeling hurt and needy.

He’d taken it greedily and pushed it against his knee in quick succession. He had not thanked her. The young girl blinked, her mouth pressed tight - and he’d understood at once that he’d got it wrong, read it incorrectly. That the handkerchief was for his tears, and not the physical pain that would pass.

“Jinkyung,” someone had snapped, sharp and disbelieving. Up ahead was an older servant girl, about Wooyoung’s age. But, it seemed, she knew the rules of the palace where Jinkyung did not. “What do you think-. Come _back_ here.”

And the girl - Jinkyung - had bunched her skirt between two fistfuls and ran, cloth walking slippers battering against the stone.

The older girl’s cautious gaze remained carefully away from Jinyoung, hand held stiffly out so Jinkyung could grasp it. She darted a quick, worried glance Jinyoung’s way and he had no idea how to read it. Or what it could mean. He could not parse it out for all the fear in her features.

She clasped Jinkyoung’s hand tightly and tugged her along, whispering sharply as their steps quickened to reach the procession.  

Jinyoung had sat dumbfounded, dirty handkerchief pressed to his knee, until he realised he’d long stopped crying.

-

He had been taught not to trust. But, perhaps, it’s an affectation he hasn’t quite been able to distance himself from. Of course, there is not so many people that Jinyoung trusts so implicitly as to turn his bare back towards.

Though there are some. His brothers, of course, and Youngjae, Jaebeom, but also Jinkyung too.

Jinkyung with her pretty eyes and spirited disposition. Her wide smile and the secrets that she keeps for him. She’s not quite clumsy, but uncouth all the same - grown overly long for her body.

Though she is very capable when she stills, when she concentrates. Her long fingers are gentle in Jinyoung’s hair, combing through the knots.

They are alone in the smaller of the baths in the palace, the one located further away. Closer to the dense forestry that is surrounded by the tall stone outer walls, than the gossiping ears of the palace proper.

It is a small, compact room; built in gleaming wood and smooth polished marble. It echoes, deep and luxurious, with each droplet of water.

Jinyoung has dipped his feet into the warm water, eyes closed, moisture misting off of his skin.

Jinkyung combs her fingers through his long locks, then removes them, sitting back on the wood. Her skirt poufs around her and she sighs.

“Long day?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder. He pushes off of the edge, slipping deeper into the water. It rises to his waist. The cropped trousers he keeps on for modesty flows like jellyfish beneath Jeju-do’s clear waters.

She lifts a single eyebrow, sardonic, “Would you believe so, your highness?”

He rolls his eyes, wading out further, lowering until his shoulders are submerged. He turns to her fully, after, watching the way her hair has turned frizzy at the edges with the heat. “I was asking after your well-being,” he says. “Is that not what friends do?”

“It is what _you_ do,” she corrects. Adjusting her skirt, she leans forward, over the edge of the pool to dip her fingers in the water. “After spending the day tormenting me.”

Her movements in the water causes barely perceptible waves. Near the windows, candlelight flickers in glass cases, bathing the room in warm tones. Jinkyung seems completely at ease, even though the bottom of her skirt is darkening with the cooling water splashed on the sides.

For a moment, Jinyoung wants to ask her to join him. It’s a quick desire - flashing hot and snubbed fast like a candle. It’s not fair, he thinks, biting at his lip beneath the water, that even their friendship is marked by distance.

“What is it?” Jinkyung asks. Her voice is purposefully quiet but it still echoes in the space. She’s removed her fingers from the water, droplets soaking dark into the edge of her simple jacket. Watching him.

Jinyoung shakes his head, swallows his ability to speak. Instead, he pushes off the bottom of the pool with his foot, flows with the movement to lean back, float a little, head tipped to gaze at the notches of decorated beams on the ceiling. “What is what?”

“You were looking at me.”

“Was I?” he smiles, the water laps against itself. “What reason would I have for that?”

She sighs, too familiar with his antics. “Don’t tease me.”

He laughs, allows it to bubble out of him to bounce against the stained wood and carved stone.

When he catches her eye, he sees that an irresistible smile pulls at the corner of her pink lips.

“I am glad to have you here,” he says. “That is all.”

-

The water laps easily at Jinyoung’s back. They’re on a different side of the pool, now, closer to the large doors that make up the entrance.

His eyes slip closed and open like a wave. He rests his arms on the ledge, his head on his arms. Beside him, is Jinkyung.

She’s manoeuvred her skirt out of the way as much as possible, and leans forward on her elbows, hands dancing with the warmth of the pool.

The heat in the ground, upon which she lays, has listed across her skin - turning her red-cheeked and dewy.

Besides them, the outer door is sturdy, made of thick wood and polished to a cherry red gloss. Overlaid, on the bottom panels, are two symmetrical depictions of a white headed chrysanthemum on a crisp green stem.

The latch groans out of its old metal holder with a zing. Jinyoung startles, and his resounding splash is an explosion of noise in the quiet moment. Jinkyung straightens up immediately, eyes darting to the door.

There’s a quiet tap on the other side, a knock too late. But Jinkyung stands on wobbly knees and crosses the short distance - to open the door or ask after who’s behind it, Jinyoung doesn’t know.

A familiar hand wraps around the edge of the door as it’s pushed open. Jinyoung’s heart thuds hard against his rib cage, he releases a long breath.

Jaebeom’s eyes takes each of them in turn. He walks further in on measured steps.

“It’s awfully late,” he comments. The beads hanging from his gat clack with each step. He bows towards Jinkyung, logging her water-stained dress even though both their eyes are averted in lingering unfamiliarity.

He coughs as a distraction, wanders in closer. Eyes resting on Jinyoung, he says, “You’re pruning.”

Jinyoung has to tip his head up in order to look at him.

“So is my right,” he replies, biting down on a burgeoning smile. “To prune until I’m capable of nothing but comfort.”

Jinkyung closes the door behind them, and Jaebeom wanders closer still, until his boots are at the edge of the pool.

“Something tells me you’re well accustomed to comfort,” he says, levelling him with a straight gaze. There’s a teasing tone to his low, careful voice. His eyes are dark, candlelight flickering on the contours of his face.

Jaebeom’s uniform is ill-fitting today, as if he’d not pulled it back over his shape after an excess of movement. Sweat leaves his exposed neck with a gleam.

Jinyoung takes it in gluttonously - the strength and stability in his frame, his thick neck and serious eyes. He turns to Jinkyung, though she seems to pre-empt his need before he even utters anything.

“I will gather your things, your highness,” she says.

It throws him, only used to hearing her formality when the situation calls for it (or, equally, when she is teasing). He isn’t sure this is either of those times.

“Thank you,” he replies, a beat too late. He lets his brow furrow. Surely she knows too much of their intimacy to be so removed from the situation. Although, Jinyoung supposes, perhaps the awkwardness lingers from having caught them naked and wrapped in each other on the edge of a summer day’s dawn.

She bows to each of them and shuffles out of the room.

Jinyoung watches her retreat into a side door where, down a short hall. It leads into an annex, holding all sorts of powders and pomades, drying cloths and scented perfumaries.

Jaebeom has crouched by the pool’s edge and Jinyoung can’t help but be drawn to him. He  can’t help but lurch forward, fisting his hand in the rough cotton of Jaebeom’s training jacket to pull him into a kiss.

Jaebeom’s lips are dry, but his mouth is tender. Jinyoung hums, hand moving to grip at the back of his neck.

When they part it’s with reluctance. They’re still close enough that Jinyoung can make out the intricate lines of his lips.

“What are you doing here?” Jaebeom asks him. His voice is gentle even though Jinyoung detects the lightest hint of admonition. “So late at night with no-one but your maidservant?”

Jinyoung scrapes his teeth over his lip, want curling in his belly as Jaebeom’s eyes trace the movement.

“Are you jealous?”

“No,” Jaebum replies evenly. “But people will talk.”

“People do nothing but talk,” Jinyoung says, a little harder this time. “Hyung, you know that just as well as I do.”

Their gazes remain steadfast on each other, both trying to read something unreadable.

Jaebeom visibly hesitates, Jinyoung’s fingers pulse on his neck. An encouragement.

The man is not usually so hesitant in expressing his thoughts. He licks his lips, takes a deep breath. “You might implicate her.”

Jinyoung blinks. Watches him watch him warily, like a cowed kitten afraid of offending.

“She’s a maidservant,” he says simply.

Rumours of intimate relations between court ladies and whom they serve has been commonplace since the institution of a court. More often than not, it contained a modicum of truth.

The fate of Jinkyung’s reputation was sealed the moment she grew into a beautiful, capable young woman surrounded by powerful, reckless men. That’s the way it is, the way it’s always been.

Jaebeom breathes slowly, ingesting so much said in almost nothing at all. Equally, Jinyoung’s belly churns with butterflies, or something else altogether.

“The water is still warm,” he says quietly - afraid of the echoes. “Will you join me?”

Jaebeom doesn’t move at first; Jinyoung holds an apprehensive breath. But after a moment, Jaebeom begins to move slowly. His thumb rubs a pattern into Jinyoung’s jaw, rubbing over the prickle of dark stubble.

He doesn’t refuse, not in so many words. He says, “We are not alone,” where Jinyoung had expected him to say, ‘I will not.’

“She will be a while yet,” Jinyoung trues, fingers holding on to Jaebeom’s wrist. 

“Jinyoung-”

“It’ll be just you and I. As if we are completely alone.”

Jaebeom runs roughened fingers through the wet tangles of Jinyoung’s hair. “If I remember correctly,” he murmurs, not hiding his smile, “the last time you swore as much, your maiden-servant found me indisposed in your bed. Forgive me if I’m not too inclined to trust your highness’ judgements.”

Jinyoung’s brows quirk, beginning to form a frown before he catches himself. It is true. That was, perhaps, a miscalculation on his part, but he has since been meticulous about organising their meetings. And now, surely, they have a confidante - someone they can trust.

The water laps between them, Jaebeom’s fingers are digging into the nape of Jinyoung’s neck. He turns his head, kissing the swell of Jaebeom’s palm, gazing at him from under his lashes. He has not much to argue, but it has been a long while.

“Please,” he says, tender. “I have missed your touch.”

Jaebeom hesitates, eyes flickering to the door Jinkyung had disappeared behind.

Jinyoung braces himself on the ledge to lean up and kiss him, before he sets about gently undressing Jaebeom. He watches Jinyoung steadily, resigned to his fate, and he’s entirely malleable in his touch. His gat is thrown back, his robes unfastened, his soft cotton trousers rolled over his ankles and removed.

He keeps his hair tied up, but he slips into the water in his undergarment, filling up the space in Jinyoung’s central vision. They stand pressed front to front, Jaebeom’s nipples grazing against Jinyoung’s goose-bumped skin.

“Is this not far more enjoyable than from afar,” Jinyoung asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. He cups the clear water in his palms, pouring it over Jaebeom’s shoulders. “The warmth should ease your aches some.”

Jaebeom’s hands flit to Jinyoung’s waist, presses their foreheads together. “Though  I think it is your hands that are putting me at ease.”

Jinyoung laughs, pulling him closer. “Have you been learning poetry,” he asks. He tilts his head, softness in his eyes. His fingers flex against the ridges of his ribcage. “To woo me?”

“To flatter you,” Jaebeom corrects, and then he pushes him hard, until Jinyoung is flailing against the water’s surface, crashing under in a peal of startled laughter that echoes too loudly in the night.

But Jaebeom’s hand is a surety, it cuts easily through the frenzied waves of the pool to grasp his arm and pull him back up. Jinyoung sputters, using the flat of his hand to wipe away the residue of water on his face.

“You are a brute,” he complains, even though he’s allows Jaebeom to pull him close by the shoulders, leaning into his warmth.

“I would not have pushed you,” Jaebeom says, humour deepening his voice, “had I known you would make such a clamour.”

“You should not push your love in any circumstance,” Jinyoung replies. “The gods themselves will have heard us, nevermind the palace.”

Jaebeom exhales, he smiles and it wavers at the corners. “Let’s hope we weren’t heard, then. I’d like to keep my head fairly far from a noose.”

Jinyoung’s heart lurches. He pulls back to catch Jaebeom’s eye. His hand is still halfway down his face, rivulets of water streaming down from his temples; he doesn’t stray past the circle of Jaebeom’s arms.

He doesn’t mean to, but when he speaks his words are clipped at the edges, syllables marching past his tense lips with clear intonation. “If that is supposed to amuse me,” he says, “you’ve fallen quite far beside the mark, Lim Jaebeom.” 

The silence stretches on. Jinyoung can feel his heart beat as keenly as he can the soft movements of the water beneath them, Jaebeom’s quiet exhalations against his skin.

“You’re right,” Jaebeom eventually concedes, fingers squeezing down in apology. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Jinyoung’s shoulders drop with a rigid lag. But he nods, willing himself to relieve the tension.

He breathes in deep and leads Jaebeom by hand to the side. On the ledge closest to the window is a basket of soaps and washing cloths. Besides all of this, the basket is stuffed full of plucked carnations - deep purple, almost black, petals wrapped around and around themselves in thick bunches.

It stings the air with a pungent peppery note, but it softens into memories of cloves and spring as Jinyoung sprinkles them in the water. Loosened petals float on the surface, gentle and purposeful, until they tack onto the wet surface of Jaebeom’s skin.

“You don’t need to do all of this,” Jaebeom says after a while, embarrassed. He glances down at himself, where Jinyoung lathers soap on his skin. It turns a deep earthy pink with the petals, contrasting against his tanned skin under the watchful eye of the candlelight. The petals burrow closer on him, like kisses and bandages over old scars.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” Jinyoung agrees. He glances up, “But I want to. For you.”

Jaebeom’s chest moves steadily under his ministrations. He tugs at a long strand of Jinyoung’s hair, curled over his bare shoulder.

“You hide it well, Jinyoung-ah, but your heart is tender.”

This gives Jinyoung pause, his brow furrows. His displays of affection are nothing short of ostentatious. “What do you mean-”

The doors open. Just over Jinyoung’s shoulder, Jinkyung bustles in her skirt, holding a basket.

She sees their proximity, their presumed nudity and shrieks, eyes shutting tight. Jinyoung and Jaebum sprint apart, a gush of water streams into the chasm, filling it with perfumed flowers.

Jinkyung holds the basket aloft in front of her face.

“I didn’t realise,” she says, a little breathlessly. The door behind her closes. “That you were still busy.”

Jinyoung rolls his eyes, “We are not.”

“Jinkyung-ssi,” Jaebum says, at the same time. “I apologise.”

“You can look,” Jinyoung says. “We are quite decent.”

A moment passes. She blinks open one curious eye, then the other. Confirmation complete, she opens them and sheepishly brings down her basket.

Her eyes scan them both, widening a little when she takes in Jaebum’s wide shoulders and lean stomach. Her fevered blush spills over from her cheeks and down her neck.

“Strange definition of decent,” she remarks awkwardly.

“Please do not pretend to be so chaste just because we are in front of the Captain,” Jinyoung tells her, wading closer to the edge near where she stands. He extends a hand out, silent request for the materials in her hand. “You have seen me in every state of impropriety, enough to desensitise even the purest souls among us.”

“Just because you are shameless-,” she replies hotly, “does not mean I have lost my propriety.” Her eyes flicker to Jaebeom, seemingly remembering his presence, she adds sheepishly, “Your highness.”

Jinyoung narrows his eyes, mouth readying.

“Jinyoung,” Jaebeom warns from beside him. He stands straighter, in a shallower part of the bath, thick arms crossed over the hair on his chest.

Jinkyung blushes even more, grabbing handfuls of towelling cloths in her hand as the red splodges on her cheeks darken. She struggles with what to do.

“I should return to the palace,” she decides with conviction, placing the basket on the floor instead.

Jinyoung is about to protest, because Jaebeom’s been here barely a moment and he wants to enjoy it still. But he sees the heavy bags under her eyes, and the tiredness that glazes over her skin and he quietens.

“I will accompany you,” Jaebum says.

She shakes her head, protests tumbling from her lips, but Jaebeom is stubborn and righteous in equal doses. He lifts himself out of the pool, and she averts her eyes. Though she hands him a cloth.

“It’s late and dangerous.”

“We are within palace grounds,” she reasons. “And it is a walk not longer than ten minutes.”

“Then it won’t be any trouble for me to accompany you,” he replies easily. “The palace is safe, but you should take care not to trust too much, that’s how defences weaken.”

Jinkyung turns to Jinyoung with pleading eyes.

“Unfortunately,” he says, “you’ve found a friend caring more about your safety than staying in your good graces.”

“I insist, Jinkyung-ssi,” Jaebeom adds, his smile is disarming - full of boyish charm. Her mollification is almost tangible.

Jaebeom puts on only his outer cheollik over his trousers, and his gat, stuffing the rest in the pouch where Jinyoung kept his clothing. He takes his knives with him.

“I’ll be back shortly,” he says to him, hovering in the threshold of the door, Jinkyung already outside. “Wait for me?”

“No,” Jinyoung immediately replies. He can’t help the smile that pulls on his lips. “Be quick.”

With a smile, Jaebeom’s out of the door, closing it neatly behind him.

Jinyoung takes the opportunity to lean into the warm water. He floats, purple-red carnation petals bobbing beside him, and enjoys the peace of being alone for almost the first instance all day.

After that, he drifts over to edge and scrubs his body down until he’s smelling like a batch of ripened, sweet peaches.

His skin tingles, where he’s submerged. He takes note of his body; his fingers _are_ pruning.

The latch of the door clicks, and then stills. Jinyoung startles, cursing under his breath.

“Would you care to stop doing that?” he demands, shaking his hand to disentangle the stubborn petals stuck to his fingers. “I have too weak a heart to withstand being startled so often in such a short timeframe.” He plunges his fingers into the water and at last the petals wash away. Cicadas chirp in the far distance. But there’s silence that multiplies in the space between him and the door. Jinyoung‘s eyes narrow, and he tenses.

“Hyung?” he says again, he steps back further away from the door; the sloshing sounds thunderous, in the hostile quiet. He feels like he can hear everything now, the breeze passing through the gap in the window, the relentless drip of water onto tile somewhere on his left, the sound of a person on the other side of door. Even the long irregular shadows cast by the candlelight seems to have grown sound.

“Jaebeom-”

A flash of dense black cotton passes by, a body - taller, leaner, _not_ Jaebeom - enters and Jinyoung jerks back, crashing into the hard edge of the pool.

His heart ricochets against his ribs.

“Sorry,” Taejoon says, boots heavy on the tiles. He doesn’t come too close, but there’s something to the curve of his mouth all the same. “I didn’t mean to startle you, your highness.”

He almost blends into the darkened walls. He’s dressed in a cheollik, completely black and divested of any sort of ostentation. His dark hair is pulled into a ponytail, secured by his headband, with only a plain button on either side. His long fingers are pale in contrast to the obsidian colour of his clothing, and the dark hilt of the long sword he’s wielding.

It hangs, like a threat between them.

Jinyoung tries to breathe steadily, glancing all around the room and then back to the man who’s blocking the closest exit. His heartbeat swells, in his chest, in his ears, until he’s certain it’s going to jump out of his body.

Taejoon sees as Jinyoung’s gaze falls to the sword once more and he turns his body to impede Jinyoung’s view of it, and yet he glances down at the sword as if he’d forgotten he was still holding it.

“My apologies, your highness,” he repeats. Then he places his sword in the plain black leather scabbard at his side.

A beat, two.

“What are you doing?” Jinyoung asks tightly.

Taejoon presses his lips together, a sheepish smile on his face. “I was hunting.”

“Hunt-” Jinyoung cuts himself off sharply, disbelieving. He feels surprise boil down into consternation, a low simmering fire deep in his belly. He stands up suddenly, water cascading off of him. Taejoon’s eyes dip to his body, the widening of his eyes is perhaps the only modicum of honest emotion Jinyoung’s seen from him.

He immediately turns his back to Jinyoung, an effort to avert his eyes from where his trousers stick to his wet-slick skin.

“I am not a woman,” Jinyoung snaps, echoing in the chamber. “You need not feign to preserve my modesty.”

He snatches a robe from Jinkyoung’s basket and wraps it around himself, uncaring that his hair soaks the fabric.

Taejoon turns back around to him by the time he’s tied a knot around his robe. He remains quiet, however, even as Jinyoung stares at him.

“Hunting?” he asks, voice flat.

Taejoon lifts his head, releases his pink lip from the grasp of his teeth. “Yes,” he says plainly. “I desired a walk.”

“It is the middle of the night.”

“I am well trained in relying on my other senses.” He looks as if to say something else, but refrains.

Jinyoung thinks he is a man altogether too hesitant and too bold. It discomfits him in some distant undefined way.

“You ought to hope our guards have just a keen sense of view,” Jinyoung replies sharply. “They don’t take too kindly to persons prowling the palace grounds clad in unseeable colours.”

Taejoon presses his lips together. “I dressed for comfort.”

“You are dressed like a vagabond,” Jinyoung replies, words sticking to his throat. It does not go amiss that the man was probably attempting to scare him. He touches his tongue to the corner of his mouth. The air of the baths feels too cloying now. “Do you take me for a game?”

Taejoon bites his lip, but Jinyoung can tell he’s trying to hide humour. “Do you not like it, your highness?”

“I-.” He stares him down. Until his expression fades. “I do not know what to make of you,” Jinyoung says at last, honestly. And it’s that - some base note in his voice, a helplessness of expression - that sobers Taejoon up.

He looks contrite and unmasked, more human than some contrived vessel for charm.

“I am sorry, Prince Jinyoung,” he says at last, voice deeper. He walks towards Jinyoung, who stands his ground. “I’m acting too familiarly. I forget you do not know me well yet.”

“I do not know you at all,” Jinyoung corrects, still smarting.

Taejoon winces, a slip in his mask reverberating over his expression. His brows form a tight knit over his dark eyes. “I was merely trying to make you smile.”

Jinyoung takes a deep breath. He watches the man opposite him. They’re not too far from each other now. “Why?”

“Because, equally, I do not know what to make of you either.”

“And that interests you?”

“It attracts me,” Taejoon confesses. He steps forward, enough that he looms over Jinyoung, lips ticking up in a helpless smile. _“_ You attract me, your highness.”

Jinyoung swallows tightly, heat blooming under his skin as air prickles above it. He feels sequestered, rooted in this spot as he is. His voice is barely louder than a whisper. “Ought you not earn my trust first, before playing practical jokes.”

Taejoon inhales evenly. He smells of dewy leaves and the earth. “You should take care not to trust too much.”

Jinyoung’s eyes snap to his, alarm suffusing throughout his body. “I-,” he starts, stops; eyes narrowing.

Taejoon’s gaze is unreadable.

“Jinyoung,” comes from the side; Jaebeom’s tense, dark voice. He stands halfway over the raised entrance of the baths, hand resting over one of his side pockets. “Is there a problem.”

“No,” Jinyoung says after a moment, eyes locked with the man in front of him. He steps back, looks towards Jaebeom, and it’s as if he’s been doused in cold water. His cheeks feel tender, and he’s glad for the candlelight obscuring his flush. “Taejoon-ssi was just leaving.”

The severity of Jaebeom’s expression doesn’t shift, but he doesn’t argue either. 

He catalogues Jinyoung’s body, sees him just  barely shivering. “I’m to walk you to your quarters.”

Disappointment blooms in the pit of Jinyoung’s stomach. He knows, by the set of Jaebeom’s mouth, that there’s no use in protesting. Another moment alone with him squandered by circumstance.

He steps around Taejoon to pick up the silk pouch containing his and Jaebeom’s clothing. He tries to shield it with his body, though he’s certain a glance wouldn’t reveal that there’s more than one set within it.

The tension in the small bathing room is almost intolerable. Jinyoung allows Jaebeom to take the pouch, and unhooks his heavy outer jacket from the side wall.

“Good night,” Jinyoung says, after he’s wrapped it around himself. “Taejoon-ssi.”

Taejoon nods, a small, sincere smile on his face. He’s still standing beside the water, carnations floating serenely at his feet. “Sleep well, your highness.”

-

Jaebeom escorts him to his room. The hand clamped on his elbow is tight, unrelenting.

He marches Jinyoung past his brothers’ rooms, and past the lounge that separates the eunuch’s quarters, and finally past the sleepy guard stationed outside Jinyoung’s room.

There he barks at the poor boy for insolence, until he’s scurrying away for a replacement.

He escorts Jinyoung until he roughly deposits him on the bed. Ignoring his grunt of indignation, he checks the closures on the window and the locking mechanism on the door. His deep breaths shake the broad line of his shoulders.

“He’s untrustworthy,” he says at last, turning to Jinyoung with fire in the set of his mouth. 

“I know,” Jinyoung replies. The placid evenness of his voice contrasts sharply. His hair is still wet and he would rather not have this conversation at all. He wants, desperately, to ask Jaebeom to stay. He will sleep better, he knows, in his arms.

“Stay away from him.”

Jinyoung opens his mouth. Closes it again. Inhales deeply. “I cannot,” he says.

“Then,” Jaebeom pleads, tongue running over dry lips. “Try not to be alone with him.”

They look at each other - emotion conveyed but unspoken. Jinyoung can’t promise him that either.

“Yes, hyung,” he says anyway, eyes falling to catch on the purple-black furled carnation petal stuck to Jaebeom’s collar. “I’ll try.”

-

Jinyoung is in the palace study, days later, when a eunuch approaches him.

He has a weather lined face and talks slowly, eyes fixed on Jinyoung’s chin. “Prince Taecyeon wishes for your attendance.”

“Presently?” Jinyoung sets down his brush, watching the ink settle on the roughly textured surface.

“Yes, your highness,” he says, voice fumbling like a continuous wave. He pauses here, eyes flicking to where Jaebeom stands in front of the seating couch. The book he was reading, before he’d stood upon the light rhythmic tap on the doorframe, is badly hidden beneath the decorative pillows. “He requests that the Captain be present also.”

Jinyoung’s mouth dries out, throat tightening. He resists the temptation to glance to the side. Instead he holds his hands stiffly in his lap.

“For what cause?”

The eunuch hesitates, dry lips pressing together. “If I may,” he starts.

“You may,” Jinyoung cuts him off, never one for pleasantries and patience on occasions like this. “Please do.”

“From what I understand, your highness, it’s in regards of a military advancement,” he continues. He bobs in place, almost straightening to relieve the pressure on his back before remembering himself. “I, of course, am not too indentured in the goings-on, but I gather Master Taecyeon is considering his role as General with enthusiasm. He seeks after your expertise, and the Captain’s experience.”

“Oh,” Jinyoung says. He lies back on his seat, finally giving himself permission to glance at Jaebeom. “I see.”

He allows the eunuch to lead them to Taecyeon’s office. It’s in a pavilion close to the barracks, besides the training arena. Jinyoung’s older brother is sitting behind a large pinewood table, with knotted stems for legs. The room itself is small and cramped, with silk tapestries on the bare walls for warmth and decoration.

On Taecyeon’s desk is a map unfurled, corners pinned by heavy jade objects fashioned into four-clawed dragons.

“You asked for me,” Jinyoung says when he enters. It smells strongly of gunpowder and fresh mint. A wooden clock is ticking on the bookshelf, the air chugs heavily, dense with moisture.

“I did,” Taecyeon replies. He sighs heavily and sits back. “The King would like me to prepare an excursion to strengthen our borders by the western seas,” he says. His expression is tight, but there’s no malice in his voice. “I could use your skills in diplomacy.”

Jinyoung, in front of his brother’s desk, moves to trace the lines on the map - rubbing his fingertips over the bumps where the ink pooled and dried.

Then he pokes at the wooden rounds of Taecyeon’s abacus. “Is this a truce?”

“I’d rather we didn’t settle familial issues in front of servants, Jinyoung,” Taecyeon leans forward to pull away the abacus from Jinyoung’s grasp. He likes everything just so. “But it can be, if you’d like.”

Jinyoung drums his fingers on the wood. Taecyeon’s face is impenetrable, but he’s squeezing at his arm rest with a trace of anxiety. Jinyoung allows himself a smile, light and small. “I would like.”

“Good,” Taecyeon says. He inhales deeply, with obvious relief, and stands. “We’re taking some of the Choi soldiers, so you can take Youngjae-”

“And Jinkyung.”

They look at each other.

“And the girl,” Taecyeon concedes with a wearied breath. “I will entrust Captain Lim to be your guard on the occasions I don’t require him to lead.”

Jinyoung hopes his grin is well concealed. “I’m quite capable of handling myself.”

“I have no doubts,” Taecyeon replies, rounding the desk with slow, even-paced steps. “But you are my brother, and I will protect you as is my duty.”

Warmth blooms in Jinyoung’s chest. “Then I will do as you wish.”

Taecyeon levels him a look. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he says wryly. To Jaebeom, he continues, “Keep him safe, and the girl.”

“With my life,” Jaebeom promises.

“And when you can’t attend to him?” Taecyeon ventures, glancing over Jinyoung. “You have someone you trust?”

“Yugyeom, my lord,” Jaebeom replies, then pauses. “If I’m permitted to take him along.”

“Your-”

“Yes, your highness,” Jaebeom interrupts.

The air in the room tightens up.

Jaebeom, the pinnacle of decorum, who never interrupts, stares into the middle distance. He swallows tightly, throat bobbing. Jinyoung and his brother stare at him. 

Taecyeon is taken aback but he takes it in stride, venturing “Captain?” before sharing a long look with Jaebeom. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” Jinyoung demands, instantly peeved. He doesn’t enjoy being left out.

“I’m not in the habit of spilling other people’s secrets, little brother,” Taecyeon says, eyes flicking towards him. “Ask him yourself, if you’re so curious.”

Jinyoung takes a readying breath, but Taecyeon barrels right on, tired, like he’s carrying all his thirty years on his back. “ _After,_ Jinyoung-ah, the excursion leaves by noon and we will not wait.”

-

Hours later, as Jinyoung’s great mare is being packed with his things, his thoughts are still troubled by the exchange.

Suyeom is a big horse, with strong muscles covered by a dappled grey coat and wide, elegant hooves. She’s taken a lot more in her life, yet Jaebeom treats her like glass.

He packs her carefully, patting her thickly corded neck until she adjust to the weight of each new addition. But this is not his duty.

Indeed, one of Jinyoung’s eunuchs is fretting with nothing to do by the wayside. It’s an apology of sorts, for Jaebeom. For the terseness of the earlier conversation perhaps, or the implied secret he’s artfully dodged since.

Jinyoung is not that easily won over. So he only takes his hand superciliously, fingertips barely resting against Jaebeom’s rough palm as he climbs his horse. Of course, he doesn’t need any help in mounting, but he allows the other man to fuss over him.

Suyeom whines, and Jinyoung shushes her gently, hand close to Jaebeom’s as they settle her together. 

Their eyes catch, longing and tension in equal measures. 

Jinyoung shifts his glance. From this vantage he can see the bustle of the troop readying themselves. Jinkyung’s already in a palanquin Jinyoung ordered for her, to be carried by six young soldiers yet to grow hair on their chest. Towards the front gates, Taecyeon is already on horseback, speaking to Choi Taejoon and Youngjae.

He glances over to Jinyoung. He hesitates, but then offers a small nod before he’s pulled into conversation again.

“You’re all set,” Jaebeom says, beneath him. His hand is wrapped around Suyeom’s tack, trying to still her restlessness. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” Jinyoung says, a little shortly. He catches the the look in Jaebeom’s face, amends, “I am, Captain, thank you.”

“Good,” Jaebeom says, then he repeats it quietly to himself. “I’ll be behind you all the way.”

Jinyoung nods. “I know,” he says. This is something his trust does not waver in. He kicks his mare in her gentle underside, spurring her into movement.

  
-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see ya in 6 months 
> 
> (just kidding, see ya next week) 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/exosbebe) | [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/thelogicoftaste)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not the biggest fan of like ... the military .... anywhere.... but, uh, i love ncis so 
> 
> semper fi, ooh rah 
> 
> find on twitter (@exosbebe) or on curious cat (@thelogicoftaste) 
> 
> p.s.  
> [joseon costume guide](https://thetalkingcupboard.com/2013/04/17/a-guide-to-joseon-hairstyles-and-headgears/)  
> [joseon menswear irl](https://artsandculture.google.com/exhibit/5QIiPSTXfq0qIg)
> 
> p.p.s. i made youngjae a squire instead of a eunuch last second so i wouldn't have to sacrifice his you-know-what, ur welcome youngjae


End file.
